


Say You'll Remember Me

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Molly, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Magical Elements, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact that Molly Hooper tried so hard at ordinary things should have been the first clue that she herself was far from ordinary.</p><p>That, Sherlock later admitted to himself, had been his first mistake. It wasn’t so surprising that he had forgotten all that had happened – in his condition, it would have been far more surprising had he actually succeeded in remembering. For what came later, however – for looking straight at Molly Hooper on her first day at the morgue, and failing to observe – Sherlock was utterly, entirely at fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say You'll Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually not that enamoured of the show Sherlock these days, but back when I was part of the fandom, I started this fic. I finally got around to finishing it, because I love the concept.

**Say You’ll Remember Me**

 

The fact that Molly Hooper tried so hard at ordinary things should have been the first clue that she herself was far from ordinary.

That, Sherlock later admitted to himself, had been his first mistake. It wasn’t so surprising that he had forgotten all that had happened – in his condition, it would have been far more surprising had he actually succeeded in remembering. For what came later, however – for looking straight at Molly Hooper on her first day at the morgue, and failing to _observe_ – Sherlock was utterly, entirely at fault.

When Molly had looked up and at smiled at him that first day, her eyes bright, and said, “Oh. Hello,” Sherlock had thought nothing of it. He had registered her attraction to him, of course, the degree of welcome in her smile, but at a glance had taken in everything he could be bothered to observe, and had assumed that there was nothing more worth knowing about her.

He had been dismissive, brusque, and as he spoke the smile had faded from Molly’s face, as he had seen everything in the room but _her_. When he’d left, she had been a forlorn, disconsolate figure, but Sherlock had barely noticed. He had been sure in his conclusion that there was nothing in Molly Hooper to interest him, and in the years that followed he had never reconsidered or even reviewed what, in the end, turned out to be a flawed assumption.

The fact was that Sherlock _should_ have realised, at some point. Molly always tried so hard at ordinary things – conversation, dealing with other people, knowing what was peculiar and what wasn’t, the way she dressed – that it should have been obvious to him that there was more to her than he had observed. Instead, he had assumed that she was simply awkward and socially inept. Then there was her tireless crush on him, and the way she never stopped trying to get his attention. Again, he had never thought much of it, despite the fact that everyone else who had ever experienced such feelings for him had very soon lost them once they became better acquainted with him. Molly’s attraction to him, on the other hand, had remained constant, even when he was at his worst.

It all should have been obvious, in retrospect, but at the time, Sherlock had looked at Molly and seen nothing more than he had expected to see.

* * *

Molly watched Sherlock leave, waited until he was definitely gone, and then gently but firmly banged her head against the wall.

Her case with Sherlock was hopeless, she knew that. If he hadn’t remembered in all this time, then he probably wasn’t ever going to do so – and as long as he didn’t, Molly was just going to remain bloody invisible, someone he looked at all the time but never really _saw_.

Knowing that didn’t make things any easier, though. After everything the two of them had been through together, after facing down a veritable army with him and seeing that rare, suppressed smile flashed in her direction, it was hard not to miss the rapport with him that she remembered. He had looked at her as though she were something special, once, and that wasn’t the sort of thing you got over easily, not from someone like him – people had said a lot of things, but no one had ever accused Molly of being heartless, and she would have to be made of stone to be immune to Sherlock’s charm, when it was there.

Sometimes Molly felt as if she were two different people, the Molly who had fought and little mousy Molly, and she didn’t know which one of them she was anymore.

Taking a deep breath, Molly pulled herself together as always, and went to begin the next autopsy.

She made all the usual preparations, and then unzipped the body bag.

If she had been holding anything at the time, Molly would have dropped it with a sharp clatter.

The ‘corpse’ in front of her was eerily beautiful, showed none of the usual signs of post-mortem, and had distinctly pointed ears.

“Motherfucking _bollocks_ ,” said Molly, who didn’t believe in swearing as a general rule, but who when she _did_ swear liked to make it count.

The corpse’s eyes slid open, and Molly sprang into action.

* * *

Molly had never really thought that she would need to use the poker she kept in the cupboard, but had stored it there just in case, in spite of all the odd looks it earned her.

As she stared down at the thing on the floor, rendered unconscious via a blow to the head by an iron poker, she was very glad she had.

She could have used other methods for subduing the bastard if it absolutely came down to it, of course, but she had fought damn hard for her humanity and she wasn’t going to give it up over the likes of _them_.

Well. That rather settled the argument about which person she was, didn’t it?

Stifling the mad urge to giggle, Molly gripped the poker more firmly and considered her options.

She’d stuffed a pair of iron manacles right at the bottom of the supplies cupboard that the cleaning staff used, and if she used them to handcuff this one to something strong they should keep him from going anywhere once he regained consciousness, _and_ stop him glamouring some poor person into setting him free – if he could even manage to do that much, considering that it would be dealing with what felt like the unholy union of a concussion and the king of all hangovers thanks to Molly’s blow with the poker, she thought with some satisfaction.

That decided, she went to fetch the manacles, continuing to think things over.

The appearance of one of _them_ at a site where strange murders had been happening couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone had been stabbed by what was probably a sword, last week, and a couple of weeks before that someone had apparently been hunted down by a pack of savage dogs. Whoever had been the target this time had obviously gotten in a lucky shot and escaped, leaving this one to be found and presumed dead.

Molly frowned at the conclusions this led her to, as she dragged her unconscious prisoner down the hallway by her ankles, keeping an ear and eye out for any witnesses. If _they_ kept turning up in one place, over a relatively short period of time… Then in all likelihood, a portal into _her_ realm could open up at any time as the boundaries between realms weakened. Normally such portals appeared in more deserted rural areas with low populations, where the people who lived there knew enough to avoid a portal if anyone accidentally came across it.

But if a portal opened up here in London, with a population of millions, who didn’t believe in anything so silly as _fairies_ …

“Shit,” Molly said grimly, and kicked her captive, because she could.

She dragged him into the handicapped-access toilet (no one ever used it, since everyone working here at the moment was able-bodied) and shackled her unconscious prisoner to the handrail mounted on the wall next to the loo.

Molly kicked him again, because she knew what one of _them_ would do, if _they_ could, and walked back to collect her poker as though she hadn’t just dragged an unconscious body down the hallway. It was bound to have been caught on the security footage, but that couldn’t be helped. Molly just hoped she got back in time to deal with the tosser before anyone interfered and unknowingly made things worse.

Molly went and had a quick shower and changed into her normal clothing, before grabbing her things. Poker firmly in hand, she left the morgue building with a determined stride, calling for a taxi.

If the fairies had broken through and were killing and taking people again, then she was _fucking well_ going to do something about it. Clutched tightly in her left hand, the iron poker began to burn against her palm. Molly gritted her teeth and ignored it.

Iron tended to do that, when she got angry. Molly didn’t like what that said about her.

* * *

Sherlock frowned down at the body.

It was the fifth to be found in this general location in the last three months, and like the others, the cause of death was unusual.

Sherlock had read the case notes before he arrived. The fourth body had been found only the night before; no doubt Molly was processing it at this moment. The cause of death had been unclear, unlike the previous three victims.

Now there was another one, discovered within hours of the last. It was a young woman, perhaps nineteen or twenty years of age, with an arrow in her throat. Not a pleasant way to die, Sherlock noted with detached distaste. The arrow had clearly been handmade, and by someone who was an expert at the craft. It was made from all natural materials, unlike most professional arrows: the shaft was made from wood, most likely ash, and the fletchings made from real feathers rather than plastic.

Sherlock shifted his angle, and gently tilted the woman’s head as best he could. The arrow had gone through her neck with sufficient force that it had protruded from the other side, so that it was possible for Sherlock to see that the arrow was tipped with a bronze arrowhead, which had been hafted and secured using animal sinew.

As a method of murder, Sherlock had to admit it was rather novel. He was intrigued.

“Are we dealing with a serial killer?” John asked.

“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock replied, still frowning at the corpse. “Consider the means of death for the first three victims – the first was clubbed over the head and strangled with a rope made of natural fibres, the second was stabbed with a sword that left traces of bronze in the wound, indicating that the blade itself was made of bronze, and the third was hunted down by a pack of hounds. Now we have a victim killed by a traditionally-made arrow with an arrowhead made of, again, bronze. What does that indicate to you?”

“Someone with an interest in historical ways of killing people?” John suggested, and then stared in surprise at something behind Sherlock.

“Precisely.” Sherlock stood. “I need to see Molly, find out if she’s done the autopsy for the fourth victim yet. He doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“That’s because he was a perpetrator, not a victim,” Molly said from behind him.

Sherlock turned, genuinely startled, to see Molly looking down at the fifth victim with a set expression. He blinked. Something about the fifth victim – or rather one of the perpetrators, apparently – had been enough to make Molly leave the morgue and come down to visit the location where the murder had taken place, an action that was completely out of character. Clearly Sherlock was missing something important.

Why Molly had brought a fireplace poker with her, Sherlock couldn’t begin to conjecture.

“Also,” Molly added, “he wasn’t actually dead.”

“ _What?_ ” Sherlock and John both chorused at once, Sherlock sharply, John incredulously. Molly didn’t pay either of them any attention, another action that was out of character, instead turning to survey their surroundings with a tense, wary look.

Sherlock looked around as well, frowning, trying to deduce what she was looking for.

Unable to observe anything out of the ordinary, he glanced back at Molly, frustrated, to see her training a fixed stare on a point some metres distant.

Sherlock stared as well. He didn’t see anything at first, but as he watched, straining to see anything odd, he noticed something strange in the air – a kind of ripple, reminiscent of a heat-haze. His gaze sharpened.

As he watched, the ripple began to grow stronger, and spread.

“ _What the fuck is that_?” John breathed next to Sherlock.

“Trouble,” said Molly dourly, sounding quite unlike herself. Sherlock would have spared her an assessing look, but he was too busy observing the ripple.

The ripple spread further as they watched, and Molly raised her poker threateningly, before the quality of the ripple changed abruptly.

In the space of an eyeblink, there was a woman standing where Sherlock, Molly, and John had been watching – one minute no one was there, the next she was standing as though she had been present the entire time. At the sight of her, Sherlock’s breath left him in a harsh gasp.

Viewed impartially, the woman was undoubtedly beautiful, tall and slender with clear, almost translucent skin, magnificent Titian hair that fell almost to her waist, and deep blue eyes that looked out at the world with a seraphic smile.

The sight of those eyes, strangely familiar and unnerving, sent Sherlock into an irrational fit of spine-crawling, deep-seated terror.

For no reason he could name, the sight of that woman gripped him with a horror and fear that was alien to him, overwhelming in its intensity. All that Sherlock could do was stand and stare, unable to move a muscle as revulsion and dread fought for dominance inside him.

Every inner alarm bell he had was ringing urgently, and Sherlock _had no idea why_. That was more disturbing than the rest. He could have sworn he had never set eyes on this woman before, and yet she was capable of wresting an emotional reaction from him that indicated that she should be intimately familiar to him. It made no _sense_.

Molly made a noise like an angry cat, stepping forward with the poker held in front of her like a sword.

Scotland Yard were only just noticing that something was wrong, and still didn’t understand that something illogically _dangerous_ had just arrived. Because whatever else this woman was, to trigger Sherlock’s internal warning system so thoroughly, she had to be one of the most dangerous people he had ever encountered.

The fact that he _did not remember encountering her_ was frustrating and worrying in the extreme.

The woman smiled at Molly. It should have been warm and friendly, but her eyes were as serene and cold as winter.

“Hello, Taryn,” she said, and a box inside Sherlock’s mind palace abruptly unlocked for the first time in years, and memory after memory came spilling out.

* * *

_“But why did they take **me?** ” Sherlock asked. He knew he sounded petulant, but considering that he’d been kidnapped and held captive by fairies, he felt that he had the right to. He still wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t all just some horrible hallucination as the result of something he’d taken, except that nothing he’d taken should have resulted in **this**._

_The young woman actually rolled her eyes. Sherlock glared._

_“Because you’re interesting,” she said, as though it should have been obvious to him. “It’s what she does. She finds things that are interesting, and she plays with them until she loses interest, and then she either gives them to the others to play with or sends them back out into the world they came from.”_

_“In what condition?” Sherlock asked. He knew, but he still had to ask._

_The girl met his eyes steadily. She was as lovely – as **enchanting** , Sherlock thought, with some bitterness – as every other woman he had seen here, but there was something in her eyes and expression that was real, instead of the papered-over blankness he saw in all the others._

_“Broken,” she said calmly._

_Sherlock scowled at the crowd of fairies paying him no attention for the moment, and looked back at the girl._

_She looked serious. When every other fairy was all endless laughter and smiles, she looked serious._

_“Why are you telling me this?” he wanted to know._

_“Because you want to escape,” she said. “So do I. I might be one of them by blood, but I grew up with a human family like a normal person, and I want to go back to being human. I’m not one of them, not really, even if I look like it.”_

_Sherlock studied her. There was a defiant tilt to her head, her chin raised and her eyes full of stubborn resolve._

_Almost on impulse, knowing that he might be putting himself in more danger instead of less, Sherlock held out his hand._

_“Sherlock Holmes,” he said abruptly._

_The girl smiled, and shook his hand awkwardly. It wasn’t one of the slick, alluring smiles he was used to seeing on the fairies, but warm and a little shy._

_“Technically, my name’s Taryn,” said the fairy, “which I probably shouldn’t have told you since you can use it against me, but I’m really hoping you won’t. But God, please just call me Molly.”_

_Involuntarily, Sherlock felt his lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile at her heartfelt request._

_“Fine then, Molly. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”_

_He might even have meant it._

* * *

Sherlock reeled slightly, as once triggered, the memories began to return to him in quick succession, flashes of images and sound and thought, all of them involving Molly.

 

_“You just killed a dragon.” Sherlock’s tone was flat and disbelieving, despite his best efforts to sound insouciant._

_Molly just grinned at him, resting the bronze sword on her shoulder, dusty and sweaty but lovely all the same. It was strange, Sherlock thought, how the less beautiful she looked, the more attractive she became. The difference between the glamour of the fae, and the genuine appeal of someone real and human. The effect was interesting to observe._

_“I’d say it’s not hard,” Molly agreed, “except that it is. You actually look impressed, for once.”_

_“Well,” said Sherlock, “it’s a dragon. That’s not exactly commonplace, is it?”_

That memory was gone within a second, replaced by another.

_“We could quite possibly die, doing this, you realise,” Molly told him._

_Sherlock flashed her a quick smile, entirely sincere. He reached out to interlock his fingers with the hand not holding the sword, and squeezed gently._

_Molly’s expression blossomed into something bright and fierce and hopeful, a kind of joy impossible to suppress shining out from beneath the dirt and the tiredness and the realistic appraisal of their chances._

_“We’ll be fine,” said Sherlock._

_Molly seemed to take heart from this, taking a deep breath and straightening, as though physically filling up with determination. She squeezed back, before gently untangling their fingers._

and

_Molly glared straight into the Queen’s eyes, quietly furious, the strength of her anger giving he a conviction and a power that kept the Queen’s influence at bay. As long as the could keep hold of that anger, Sherlock thought tersely, with a hint of admiration, and she didn’t let go of the iron sword they’d bartered from the troll, they might actually **win** this battle._

_“No,” Molly said. Her voice held the same resolve as her gaze. “This is **enough.** ”_

* * *

“Sherlock!” John caught Sherlock as he staggered, dizzy with the wealth of recollection. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Sherlock immediately looked back to where Molly stood facing down the Queen, the iron poker between them. The Queen looked vaguely amused, watching Molly try to fight her off with the look of an indulgent parent witnessing the antics of an entertaining child.

Oh, Sherlock thought. Obvious. He’d been _stupid_ never to notice before. How often did a rebellious changeling stand off against the Queen of the Fairies herself, and live to fight another day, while winning something important into the bargain?

The answer was _never._ Unless, of course, the Queen chose to let her win, chose to acknowledge unspoken rules and honour imagined constraints, because the goal wasn’t really to win.

Sherlock looked at Molly: strong, defiant, independent, and no doubt exactly what the Queen had always wanted in her offspring.

It was a terrible thing to realise, but it wasn’t something he could deny. Their escape all those years ago made so much more _sense._

Tests and bargains, and rules they may or may not choose to honour. That was the fairy way.

Sensing his gaze, the Queen glanced in Sherlock’s direction, and her smile widened in recognition and genuine amusement.

Oh yes, no doubt she thought this _hilarious_.

“ _Sherlock_.” His name was purred with delighted surprise and pleasure, every word infused with magic calling him to her. “How charming to see you again.”

“That’s not how I’d put it,” Sherlock said darkly, and the Queen laughed, throwing her head back so that her glorious red hair rippled with the movement.

Her eyes met his own, deep an ancient and full of mischief, ad Sherlock knew that she was aware of _exactly_ what he had deduced.

“How rude, darling.”

“Shut up, don’t talk to him,” Molly snapped, her voice low and fierce.

“It’s fine.” Sherlock trained his gaze on Molly. “She can’t affect me.”

“Not anymore.” The Queen’s mirth was one of the most irritating things Sherlock had ever encountered. “A heart truly won is a heart immune.”

At that Molly looked away from the Queen to glance up at Sherlock, wide-eyed and full of hope. Sherlock shifted uncomfortable, but met her gaze.

“Oh,” Molly breathed. “You _remember_.”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John demanded. “Who’s she? How does she know you and Molly?”

Sherlock didn’t look away from Molly as he answered.

“She’s the Queen of the Fairies, John. Molly and I escaped from her years ago.”

“What, you’re a fairy?” Donovan sniggered. Next to her Anderson was staring raptly at the Fairy Queen. Lestrade was standing there looking uneasy, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe what was in front of him, despite what his instincts were telling him.

“No.” It was Molly who answered, her voice firm. “I was. But that was a long time ago.”

“Oh, Taryn.” The Queen shook her head, with a pitying smile. “Do you really think you can leave your heritage behind forever?” She leaned forward, and Molly raised the poker higher. “Darling, doesn’t that poker _burn?_ ”

Molly gritted her teeth, her grip on the poker tightening.

“I’m human,” she spat. “And this is not your domain. I demand that you leave, and never come back.”

The Queen laughed again.

“Oh, do you?” she asked, smiling. “Is this your domain, then? Will you defend it?”

“I will,” said Molly, never breaking the Queen’s gaze.

This time the Queen’s smile was catlike and full of satisfaction.

“Then I will honour your demands,” she said graciously. “I always did have a soft spot for heroes, my dear. Fare thee well.”

“Go,” said Molly, jabbing at the Queen with the poker.

The Queen flinched back, and her self-satisfied smile lessened a little. But she stepped back, one step and then another, and vanished through the ripple in the air. Molly slashed her poker through it, and a moment later the ripple vanished.

Molly dropped the poker with a gasp, and Sherlock saw that her hands were red with burns.

“Are you alright?” he asked, already knowing the answer to the question, but needing to ask it anyway.

Molly turned to him with a brave smile.

“Fine,” she said. “Dealing with _them_ , it just always brings out the worst in me.”

“Funny,” said Sherlock. “I would have said that dealing with _her_ always brings out the best in you.”

They stood there smiling at each other, while John stared between them, a confused furrow between his brows.

“Would someone explain what the hell just happened?” Lestrade asked plaintively.

“Fairies,” said Sherlock, without looking away from Molly. “Pernicious creatures. If you’ll excuse me, I need to take Molly out for coffee.”

“Just a coffee?” Molly teased, and then bit her lip, unsure whether she’d overstepped her boundaries.

“Or we could do dinner as well,” said Sherlock, hating that he’d done that to her.

Molly smiled.

“Dinner sounds nice,” she said.

“Tonight, at seven?” Sherlock suggested.

“It’s a date.” Molly smiled at him, and Sherlock smiled back. He bent to pick up the iron poker, and straightened.

“Oh!” Molly’s face changed as she remembered something. Her expression turned guilty and alarmed. “There’s, um –”

Sherlock put it together.

“The previous victim, who wasn’t a victim at all,” he said. “They’re back at the morgue, aren’t they?”

“I brained him with the poker and locked him in the handicapped toilets,” Molly confessed. “But we can’t just leave him there. _They’re_ dangerous.”

“I’ll call Mycroft,” said Sherlock. “He might as well make himself useful for once.”

“And then coffee,” Molly said determinedly.

“And then coffee,” Sherlock agreed, smiling at her.

“Hang on,” said John, “what the hell –”

“It’s a long story,” said Sherlock. “I’ll explain later.”

“After coffee,” Molly added, and laughed, the sound happy and joyous. Sherlock offered her his arm, and they walked off together, ignoring Lestrade's yells for them to come back and John's bemused expression.


End file.
